


Rigged

by spinninginfinityboy



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Gen or Pre-Slash, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Sex, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 06:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinninginfinityboy/pseuds/spinninginfinityboy
Summary: Never get in somewhere you can’t get out. Neal Caffrey can always get out.





	Rigged

A sharp intake of breath hisses through Neal’s teeth as the pain in his shoulder intensifies. Holding it at such an unnatural angle for so long can do that. Rather than ease up, he twists into the pain, pushing it further. Neal just hopes that the rope will reach its limit before he does, although, if he’s honest, Neal sometimes thinks he could do this forever. The ropes around him are soft, good quality; he’d brought his own, just in case, but upon arriving at the man’s apartment he’d learned he didn’t need them. The apartment’s owner had introduced himself as Steven, but Neal knows his name is Connor. Fair’s fair, of course – as far as Connor is concerned Neal’s name is Nick. Connor advertised himself on Craigslist as being a professional, which is often a warning sign, but Neal is pleased to note this time it’s nothing short of the truth. He’s also remarkably understanding of why Neal is there.

Who says work and pleasure have to stay separate?

Twisting again, Neal feels the knot around his wrist give slightly. He worms a finger into a loop and tugs. The silk blindfold over his eyes makes the knot a little difficult to figure out, but he’s more than happy to accept the challenge. That’s the whole reason he came. Well; that, and the obvious.

The rope binding his wrist behind him slackens, and Neal works himself free of it. The muscles in his shoulder burn, unaccustomed to moving after being restrained for so long. Neal’s breath catches in his throat and he breathes through the pain, swinging his arm around to another rope and loosening that knot too. His legs come free – no longer suspended horizontally, Neal lowers his feet to the floor. Now the only thing holding his lower half is the ankle monitor. Neal feels the weight of it and shivers, trying not to think too hard about how he'll slip free of that, too, when the time comes. From somewhere outside of himself he can hear Connor breathing heavily. The ground rules had been firmly established when they first met, drinking coffee in Connor’s kitchen while Neal tried not to stare at the array of ropes, blindfolds, and other toys laid out on Connor’s sofa. Any tie, any position was fair game. Improvised extras would not be discouraged so long as they were safe. Hell, Neal had even brought his own handcuffs. No touching, though. That was a firm boundary. Connor would restrain Neal, Neal would free himself, and they would go their separate ways. After a slightly awkward first encounter they’d mutually agreed that Connor touching himself would be alright. Arousal runs the length of Neal’s spine as he hears Connor moan softly, followed by the sound of fabric shifting.

“Holy hell, Nick,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s not done yet,” Neal replies through a dry mouth. His right arm is still held, tied in an unfamiliar manner and his wrist cuffed through the rope to prevent Neal slipping the cuff. Connor had seen that trick one time too many. If he tries to pull his hand free the usual way then the knots along the rest of his arm will tighten, putting him in a restraint that's just the right side of painful. He tries to focus, though it’s difficult with arousal sitting heavy and distracting in the pit of his stomach and in between his legs. With his newly freed left hand he reaches around and methodically works the knot free, breathing as evenly as he can force himself to.

Neal’s hands now free, he doesn’t reach for his blindfold. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. He kneels on the floor, trying with everything he has not to be looked down upon, and takes a slow breath in and out again.

“Another,” he murmurs. Connor obliges with no small satisfaction.

All in all, it’s three hours, and six positions. Some of them are meticulous, skilled and inventive. Clearly Neal – or Nick – has been on Connor’s mind. There’s practice in these knots and some genuinely clever thinking in them too. Carry on like this and Neal might have to ask him to dinner some time, to discuss technique. Only to discuss technique. Anything else would just be leading him on. As Neal had requested, Connor also throws in some knots that are deliberately sloppy, cruel in some cases. Just in case. After all, not every criminal is skilled in shibari.

God, Connor is skilled. Neal spends two days thinking about one of the knots, tied for nothing except decoration. It had pressed into the pulse point of his wrist and every time his heart rate picked up he could feel it. His mouth went dry just thinking about it. Two days, with the ghost of a knot haunting him.

It’s not just about sex. It is a little – isn’t everything, to someone? – and Neal would never deny that he’s spent nights in his bed, mornings in his shower, mentally replaying the sessions with a little added detail and his hands to help. But more than that, it’s reassuring, it’s a comfort. Never get in somewhere you can’t get out. Neal Caffrey can always get out.

He’s still thinking about his last session with Connor, sitting at his official Bureau desk, turning pens idly in his hand and waiting for something interesting to happen. Peter’s meeting should be due to end any time soon. Maybe Neal will get lucky and get to take him to lunch.

Right on cue Peter strides in, the doors swinging open. Neal starts to rise from his seat, grinning.

“Peter! Listen, there’s this new restaurant-”

“Not now, Neal,” says Peter. He’s not even looking at Neal; he’s going straight to his office, and he looks pissed. It’s probably nothing – Peter usually tells Neal if it’s anything interesting – but a Peter pissed off at paperwork is just as pissed as Peter going after a corrupt banker or whoever else the team are chasing on any particular day. There’s a look he gets that warns people away. Neal wants nothing more sometimes than to chase it.

“But Peter –”

He half has to run to keep up with Peter’s long, purposeful strides, and this time Peter does stop and look at him. The expression he wears is a mixture of weariness and frustration. It fits far too well.

“Listen, I have work to do. I have things that need sorted out and people who need shouted at, and it shouldn’t be you. Don’t ask me questions right now, don’t tell me about anything you’re working on, just- just don’t. I need fifteen minutes. So you sit there at your desk, and when I’m done you can finish that sentence.”

There’s a serious edge to his voice, but Neal knows Peter means well. He’s already mentally rifling through local restaurants that might still have room for a lunchtime table for two.

“Sit down, Neal,” repeats Peter. Soft but firm and commanding, Peter really is an excellent team leader. He's already walking away into his office, giving instructions and asking questions to five people at once, none of whom are Neal.

So Neal sits. Hands on his knees, back straight, and he’s looking at his computer screen but he finds himself unable to take anything in. There’s an all-too-familiar feeling creeping up over him, one which he pushes down and away. Neal finds himself becoming simultaneously aware of two things; the weight of the cuff around his ankle, anchoring him motionless in his chair, and a familiar heat building in the pit of his stomach and creeping dangerously lower. He should change the position he’s sitting in, the one he took up so naturally and habitually, but when he tries to Neal finds he can’t bring himself to move.

It’s nothing. None of this is anything. He’s just waiting for his friend, his co-worker – his _married_ co-worker – to finish a work call and then go for lunch.  
In through his nose, out through his mouth, he breathes until the feeling goes away and everything is normal again. Time passes strangely when his head is like that, sort of soft and blurred and yet utterly focused on one thing. Peter’s office door opens and shuts.

“Hey.”

The frustrated, hard edge to his voice is gone. Neal blinks slowly, twice in succession, and looks up to see Peter standing over his desk. He feels a little dazed, and must look it, too, because Peter frowns at him with concern.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Good! I was just trying to decide whether today feels more Greek or Italian.”

He smiles and shakes away the last of it, whatever it all was, and it seems to convince Peter because he smiles too.

“I’d say Italian.”

“Then Italian it is,” replies Neal, picking up his hat and jacket as he stands. Warmth settles in his stomach at how quickly he falls into step with Peter, how they walk easily side by side, bumping shoulders. A team. Anxiety flutters and Neal breathes it away, slow and careful, smile never leaving his face.

Neal Caffrey never gets in where he can’t get out.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of years back I saw a comedian who talked about how he used to be into bondage and shibari as a purely kink thing but then began to develop an interest in escapology. Neal has an interest in escapology and ends up developing a thing for it. And thus the world remains in balance.


End file.
